Midwinter stopped, considered for a moment, and suddenly submitted.
“You’re right,” he said, “and I’m wrong, as usual. I’m wasting time and distressing you to no purpose. What folly to ask you to let me go back! Suppose you had said yes?”
“Well?” asked Allan.
“Well,” repeated Midwinter, “something would have happened at the first step to stop me, that’s all. Come on.”
They walked together in silence on the way to the Mere.
At the last turn in the path Allan’s cigar went out. While he stopped to light it again, Midwinter walked on before him, and was the first to come in sight of the open ground.
Allan had just kindled the match, when, to his surprise, his friend came back to him round the turn in the path. There was light enough to show objects more clearly in this part of the plantation. The match, as Midwinter faced him, dropped on the instant from Allan’s hand.
“Good God!” he cried, starting back, “you look as you looked on board the Wreck!”
Midwinter held up his band for silence. He spoke with his wild eyes riveted on Allan’s face, with his white lips close at Allan’s ear.
“You remember how I looked,” he answered, in a whisper. “Do you remember what I said when you and the doctor were talking of the Dream?”